


To Be Safely Thus

by Verecunda



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Conspiracy, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasy Politics, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22607734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Emperor Florian owes everything to his father's minister, Alberic, and Alberic has no intention of letting him break with him now.
Relationships: Very Young Newly-Crowned Emperor/His Father's Most Trusted Advisor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	To Be Safely Thus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SouthernContinentSkies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/gifts).



It was remarked by many that Florian II looked very pale on the day of his crowning. As well he might, came the reply more often that not. It was a cruel hard thing for any lad of eighteen, no matter his station, to lose a father so suddenly. Ah, went the inevitable rejoinder, but not every lad lost a father and found himself lord and master of the Melgarian Empire in one cast — and at such a time as this. Well might a green lad of eighteen look pale at such a prospect.

Yet, for all that, the ceremonies had gone well. At sunset, the body of the departed Clovis V had been laid to rest in the mausoleum of his forebears with much lamentation, and all the proper vigils had been held. While the young prince sat through the night in the mausoleum to make his last farewells, the High See had been a shimmering lake of candlelight, its arches ringing back tenfold the silver pealing of bells and the low murmuration of prayers. Then, at sunrise, having seen his father’s soul off upon the heaven-road, the prince had emerged from the door of death into the first searching rays of sunlight. The High Episcopa took the auspices of the dawn and, having pronounced them singularly favourable, she laid the heavy crown upon his head, and draped the Imperial seal about his neck. And thus, in the first delicate light of the new day, Crown Prince Florian was reborn as Emperor Florian II.

Then, of course, had come the great procession from the High See back to the Imperial Palace, as the people massed in their thousands — indeed, had begun massing the day before — to catch their first glimpse of the new Emperor. They thronged the streets, gathered in windows, clambered up on rooftops to get a good look at him; threw flowers before the horse’s hooves; held out their hands in the hope of brushing even a finger against the hem of his great ceremonial robe. Their cheers swept him on to the gates of the palace, and when he turned there to acknowledge them, their adulation reached an absolutely transcendent pitch.

As soon as Florian was installed in the palace, the capital was given up to celebration. The parks and pleasure-gardens were given over to games and feasts, plays and pageants, all paid for out of the Imperial coffers. Every street, from the grandest thoroughfare to the meanest alleyway, was hung with pennants and lanterns, lights blazed in every window, and the doors of every alehouse were flung open, while the people caroused and toasted their new Emperor once, twice, a dozen times over.

Meanwhile, in the palace itself, the great hall had been hung with the colours of the House of Melgar, blazoning scarlet and gold from every rafter. From his place at the high table, the Emperor received the oaths from all the heads of the great families and provincial representatives, and gave out the usual gifts in turn. The ceremonies this concluded, the Emperor took his seat and the banqueting began. The long tables were spread with dainties from every province in the Empire, with besides enough wine and mead to drown the whole assembly. The hall resounded with talk and laughter, mingled through with the golden ripple of the royal harper’s voice as he sang the new praise-song he had composed for the occasion. Florian presided over all, sitting among his closest kindred, and it was as he sat there that his pallor was observed and remarked upon.

From his own place close to the high table, Alberic had ample opportunity to observe it for himself. As Imperial Minister, precedence allowed him a seat close to the Imperial family, and so he could clearly see the Emperor’s face from where he sat. Florian had always been fair, a marked contrast to the hearty ruddiness of his father, but even the golden light of the great candelabras could not disguise that his face was very white indeed, a contrast made all the more marked by the richness of the coronation regalia, and the lines of his face were tense. But for all that, he carried himself well, decorous and smiling, and he had spoken most graciously during the oaths and the gift-giving. The day had gone well, and Alberic saw no reason to fear that Florian would do anything to disappoint himself now.

He waited as long as seemed suitable, then rose from his seat. Not for him the jewelled glamour of the court, the cross-currents of gossip traded over the silver platters. This was all the outward show; his concern was what went on beneath the gilding, the mundane business that kept the wheels of the Empire oiled and turning. In his sober robes of grey and black, he was already at odds with the gorgeously-attired nobles of the great families, and by more besides. He had work to do, and his presence would not be missed at the feasting.

As he stood, he glanced across to the high table, to Florian. He was deep in conversation with his sister, the Lady Gisela, but the movement seemed to catch his eye, for his gaze darted to the side to lock with Alberic’s. The look passed between them like a touch; then, very slightly, Alberic inclined his head. A faint flush rose in Florian's white face, and at once he broke the look, returning his full attention to his sister. With a private smile, Alberic passed between the benches, through the crowds of red-faced servants, and left the great and the good to their revels.

After the rarified air of the great hall, his own offices, tucked away in the northern bastion, were quite austere and dark, enclosed by their heavy oak panelling. This was his world, the shelves heavy with ledgers and writing-tablets, full of the business of Empire: correspondence both official and unofficial, the reports from the provinces, the accounts, the maps, the plans and manifests, and the countless other things that required the Imperial Minister’s signature and seal. The space between the death of one emperor and the crowning of the new was always a fraught one, short though it may be, and he must work hard to ensure the succession went smoothly, lest any provincial generals or rival rulers got any foolish ideas. He buried himself deep in it, writing and sealing by the glim of one lantern above his head, until his personal secretary, Taurin, slipped into his office just after midnight and informed him that the Emperor had left the great hall.

Alberic looked up, frowning. “Left?”

“Yes, my lord. Took his leave of the revellers, then went up to his own rooms.”

Alberic tapped his pen thoughtfully against the edge of his desk. “How did he seem?”

The secretary shrugged. “Oh, he was gracious enough. Paid his respects to the guests and bade them enjoy the rest of the festivities. But to my mind, he looked rather pale — peaky, even.”

Alberic nodded once, slowly, absorbing this intelligence. “Thank you, Taurin. You may go.”

“My lord.” With a swift bow of his head, Taurin slipped out of the office just as neatly as he had arrived, the heavy door falling closed behind him. Alberic waited a little, listening to his footsteps fade away along the passage outside, then put away his work and pushed back his chair to cross the room to the eastern wall. Taking a small iron key from the pocket of his robes, he found the little keyhole, ingeniously disguised by a carven oak leaf in the scrollwork around the sides, and unlocked the discreet doorway set into the panelling. There were many of these doors within the palace, their secrets known only to a few, and they opened onto a honeycomb of obscure passages and hidden stairs, following old and secret routes through the most ancient heart of the palace. It was one of these routes that Alberic followed now, taking a well-trodden path that brought him up several spiralling staircases and, at last, to another discreet doorway that brought him out into the new Emperor’s private apartments.

He found Florian in his bedchamber. The oil-lamps had been lit, brightly illuminating the fine furnishings and hangings, the gleam of the polished green-veined marble, the glint of gold and jewels in the rich ornamentations. Florian himself stood at the high windows, where the shadows fretted at the edge of the pool of lamplight, his gaze turned upon the great light-starred expanse of the city below.

For a long moment, Alberic was content simply to stand there and look at him. He still wore the great crown, though he had removed the heavy coronation robe, affording a most pleasing glimpse of the slim legs beneath his white tunic. The lamplight warmed the gold of his hair, raced along the silver threads woven into his garments, while the moonlight falling through the window lent his fine features a quality of almost exquisite delicacy.

Alberic cleared his throat.

At once, Florian gave a violent start. He tore his gaze from the window, his whole body whipping about to face the intruder. Seeing Alberic, however, he let out a sharp breath, his expression warring between relief and a strange sort of wariness.

“Alberic. I had no idea you were there.”

Alberic merely bowed, all formality. “Sire.”

“You come and go like a ghost.” Florian gave a short, not quite happy laugh. “For a moment I thought you were…” But he bit off the rest of that thought and looked at him more directly. “What are you doing here?”

Alberic gave a mild shrug. “I heard you had retired early from the feasting. I trust you are not indisposed?”

“Indisposed,” echoed Florian, with a fugitive trace of bitterness. He turned from Alberic and back to the window. In a low, musing voice, as if he was talking more to himself, he said, “It hardly seems real. Not a week ago, my father was alive, and now…” He uttered a heavy sigh, his breath sending a bloom of mist against the glass. “How they all mourn him.”

“And how they welcome you in his place.” Softly, Alberic crossed the floor to Florian’s side and laid a hand upon his shoulder, smiling to himself at the faint tremor that the faint tremor that passed through the slight frame in response. He was careful to wipe the smile from his face, however, as Florian turned back to him, grey eyes unusually clouded.

“I have felt their eyes on me all day. Watching me; always watching. That was why I left early. I had to — I had to get away.”

Alberic frowned, but let his thumb slip round to the nape of Florian’s neck, lightly caressing the soft skin just above the line of his collar. “I am afraid that’s the lot of an emperor, my lord, to be looked at.”

But without seeming to hear him, Florian went on: “I know what they were thinking. My father was a great emperor, the very greatest of our line. He was everything a ruler of the House of Melgar ought to be.”

“And why should his son not be a great emperor, also?”

This had not the desired effect for, somewhat to his surprise, Florian stiffened beneath his hand, and his eyes flashed. “I’ve no wish to hear idle flattery, Alberic. I could talk to any fool in the great hall if that was all I wanted.”

With raised brows, Alberic lifted his hand away. “I assure you, Sire,” he said coolly, “I am not much in the business of idle flattery. Besides,” he added with a smile, “didn’t you hear the Episcopa’s augury? The omens could hardly have been more favourable.”

Indeed, he thought, the Lady Joveta had outdone herself. That bribe had been an investment well-made.

Florian snorted, but the tension still lingered in his face, and Alberic peered at him more closely. “What is it?”

Florian gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders, not quite meeting his eyes. “Oh — I dare say it’s nothing of consequence…”

Alberic bit down on a flaring of frustration and, softly, urged: “Tell me.”

With a palpable effort, Florian replied, “It’s only something that my cousin Sigibert said during the feast. He made some remark about how my father was in such good health, and his passing was so sudden, one might almost think there had been… foul play.”

A sick jolt struck Alberic to the core. “Your cousin Sigibert is a prattling fool,” he snapped. “He had best mind his tongue lest he lose it.”

His mind was already racing ahead. He had no particular fear of Lord Sigibert: the young man was bluff and wholly without guile, and Alberic had no doubt he must have thought the remark a perfectly ridiculous joke. But what might be a great joke to Sigibert might set other, more suspicious minds to turning.

Florian was watching his face, and it seemed he must have divined something of Alberic’s thoughts, for if his face had been pale before, it was almost grey now, the fine bones stark beneath the skin. “You don’t think… do you mean to say that people may believe I had something to do with it?”

“ _You?_ ” Alberic could not suppress a hard, bitter laugh. He reached out, and drew his hands lightly through Florian’s hair, watching the dash of lamplight upon it, and enjoying the warmth and softness between his fingers. “Now, who would ever suspect Florian the Golden Prince, darling of the House of Melgar, to be capable of so foul a deed as that? No, it would serve no one to accuse _you_ of anything.”

But, he thought, there were plenty of factions within the court who would be happy to accuse _him_. He had made plenty of enemies on his long climb up to his place at old Clovis’ right hand, people whom he’d offended for having the temerity to not know his place, for not remaining as a lowly clerk in the law-courts of Rhemos. He could think of at least a dozen people — and that just off the top of his head — who would love nothing more than to topple him with something like an accusation of murder, proof or no proof.

“You think they might accuse you?” said Florian, and Alberic saw the keen, sidewise glance that those grey eyes darted his way. He even half-fancied he could hear the rapid turning of his mind, just a heartbeat or two behind. He almost smiled. Florian was certainly not stupid, but he was very new to this game, and the idea now flitting through his head was as clear as glass.

“Oh, Sire,” he murmured, not troubling to hide his amusement, “to cast off a royal old retainer and go your own way? That strikes me as a poor reward for all I’ve done for you.”

Florian’s face was ill-suited for sneering, but he made a valiant attempt all the same, one corner of his mouth curling upwards. “Do not pretend that you serve anyone but yourself, Alberic.”

“And have I not served you, my lord?” Alberic retorted at once. “Did I not take the burden of our enterprise upon my own shoulders, and save you from the dishonour of becoming a kinslayer?”

His words struck home with admirable precision. Florian flinched as if from a blow, his whole body recoiling, an expression of truest agony distorting his features, a potent blend of grief and guilt. Then, in the next moment, his shoulders sagged and his head drooped, and with a great shuddering sigh, he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, gods below.”

Gently, Alberic took his chin between thumb and forefinger, raising it so Florian had no choice but to look at him. That spark of haughty defiance had been thoroughly extinguished, and now there was nothing in his face but a profound, almost desperate, desolation. There was something very open about young Florian — a sensitivity, even a vulnerability — that touched the heart. It was one of the things that made him so popular with the people, but it also made him hard to manage. If he ever hoped to get away with this enterprise of theirs, he needed an ally, and he knew it.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low but firm. “We did only what we had to do. A war with the Darinids would have brought this Empire crumbling down about us. Your father would not hear reason. It had to be done. One evil to stave off a greater one.”

“You make it sound so simple,” whispered Florian. “I thought — when I was crowned, that would settle everything. I would be Emperor, and that would be that. But I have hardly slept these last three nights, and during the vigil last night, I prayed — oh, gods above and below! I prayed as I have never prayed before in my life. All I can see about me are shadows, and when anyone looks at me, it is as if they _know_ , as if the thing is marked plain upon my face.”

“They know nothing,” Alberic said firmly. “I gave that wretched apothecary enough gold for him to retire comfortably to the Silk Islands for the rest of his life, along with warnings of the direst consequences should he ever show his face within a hundred miles of the capital again. There is nothing for anyone to know.”

But Florian seemed less interested in listening to cool reason than in unburdening his own misery. “I have spent all day surrounded by people; but I feel — oh, gods preserve me — I have never felt more alone.”

“You are not alone,” said Alberic, and now let his hand trail down the length of Florian’s upper arm, slowly, before cupping his elbow, the bone sharp through the fine wool of his sleeve. Gentle, just enough to suggest an offer of reliance. 

“I loved my father,” said Florian, as if he could keep it back no longer.

“As did I,” replied Alberic, quite honestly.

“Yet you killed him,” said Florian, voice leaden.

“Yes.” Alberic nodded. “So you see, my lord, how closely we are bound together.”

A soft in-drawn breath, then, in the space of the next heartbeat, Florian’s hands were fumbling to grasp the dark braid of his collar, clutching so tightly the knuckles showed white through the skin.

“Alberic,” he murmured, “Alberic, please—”

And now he was holding fast, clinging unashamedly to Alberic’s neck with a desperate mingling of anguish and want, pressing his whole body close as if he were caught in some roaring flood-current and Alberic was the only thing within reach to keep him from being swept away. The sensation of that lithe body against his own raised a flush of warmth, rich and dark, deep in Alberic’s loins and, slowly, he slipped his arms about Florian in turn. Ah yes, here was his reward, his compensation for all the sordid dealings he must wade through. There were times when it was quite permissible to mix business with pleasure.

“There,” he whispered, putting his lips close to Florian’s ear and murmuring in his most soothing tones. “There, I have you.”

In response, Florian shivered and buried himself deeper in the circle of his arms. There it was, thought Alberic, now stroking firmly between the delicate shoulder-blades. A little flash of wilfulness was forgivable here and there, just as long as he remembered the proper order of things.

“Alberic,” he moaned, “I cannot… I cannot…”

Then he was raising his face from Alberic’s shoulder, turning it up blindly, lips already parted, searching… Alberic waited one heartbeat, two, then tilted his head to claim Florian’s mouth. At that, Florian gave a muffled cry that Alberic felt trembling in his own mouth, high with shock and lust combined, and pressed his mouth more eagerly against Alberic’s own, tongue already thrusting between his lips to deepen the kiss, warm and wet.

A shock of desire set Alberic’s blood alight, bright and fierce, so fierce that it almost undid him upon the instant; and he had to fight hard to keep it down. It was the one danger when dealing with Florian. He was, it must be admitted, quite intoxicating. And it was when he was like this, clinging and brimming over with raw need, without even the wit to conceal it, that Alberic had to exercise every ounce of resolution he possessed to keep himself from losing his head and letting himself be carried away. That would never do.

So he seized control of the kiss, bringing one hand up to hold Florian’s chin in place just so, thrusting against that eager tongue with own; and in a matter of moments Florian was moaning deep into his mouth and squirming shamelessly against him. He was already hard, the shape of his cock solid and insistent against Alberic’s thigh, and it called Alberic’s attention how inflamed he was himself, his own prick a hot, heavy pulse within his breeches.

At last the kiss ran its course and they broke apart, the breath coming harsh and hot between them, and he was able to rasp out, “On the bed, Sire.”

The shudder that passed through Florian’s body at that was most gratifying. It took him from head to toe, quite visibly, and so distinct Alberic felt it in his own limbs. His eyelids fluttered, and Alberic could feel him yielding…

“No.” With a snap, those grey eyes opened, glaring at him. “No, I will not. I am Emperor of the Malgerians now. It is not for me to—” he swallowed — “ _subject_ myself.”

“Oh, no? So a man’s tastes change as soon as he puts a crown upon his head? Very interesting.” He let his thumb curve up along Florian’s cheekbone, then up to his temple, where the line of his hair disappeared beneath the rim of the crown; then, finally, to the crown itself. Ugly, gaudy thing, he had always thought, with its over-elaborate golden tracery and profusion of garnets and amethysts so beloved of the old kings. But he did not have to wear it. That was one virtue, at least, of one in his position. Let Florian wear the crown; better by far to be the one standing behind to guide the flow of power. The thought stirred something within him, threw up some very interesting ideas.

“A shame,” he said, running his fingers over the arches of the crown. “I rather liked you as a prince. You were so very sweet. So very wanton, too, the way you would flaunt yourself like a girl from one of the red-lantern streets.”

Florian raised his chin: a show of defiance, no doubt, but all it served to do was display the movement of his throat as he swallowed. Alberic bit down upon his tongue, feeling his cock swell even further. Yes, this should be most diverting.

“But if it is no longer your wish…” Suddenly, he took his hand from the crown and drew away.

At once, Florian gave an ill-stifled cry. “No! No, Alberic, please — don’t leave. I cannot—”

 _I cannot stand by myself._ Those were the words he could not bring himself to utter. Though they went unsaid, they were hanging there in the air. It was as good as an admission. Alberic smiled.

“There, now.” He reached out, taking Florian by the shoulders again. “I will not leave you, Sire. Have I not already said so? Now,” kissing him again, “come.”

Slowly, as the kiss deepened, he edged Florian back, into the very centre of the room where the lamplight pooled most brightly, then pulled away. Florian groaned, a little thwarted sound, and tried to pursue him, but Alberic placed a hand on his chest to prevent him. Holding Florian’s eye, he drew back and settled himself down on the couch just behind him. Standing alone in the middle of the floor, Florian eyed him uncertainly.

“What do you want from me?”

“Right now? Only to see you, my lord. You can grant me that much, surely?”

A moment more, then Florian nodded. Alberic smiled. “Most magnanimous, Sire.”

Florian drew in a breath, like one about to go into battle. Most unusual: he had never known Florian to be doubtful of his charms. He had certainly not been so hesitant on the night he had first appeared in Alberic’s chambers, vain in the awareness of his own beauty, and proud at his own cunning in seducing his father’s Minister. Alberic had humoured that little fancy as long as it had warranted; now was time to show him how things truly stood.

As Florian moved to lift the heavy crown from his head, he held up a hand. 

“No. Let that stay. That and the crest.”

Florian gave him a look that was almost appalled, but it was swiftly overtaken by the darkening of desire. His tongue flickered out to wet his bottom lip, before he unbelted the rich white tunic and drew it over his head, careful not to knock the crown aside. This he followed by the fine linen undertunic. Then, with Alberic holding his gaze all the time, he raised first one leg, then the other, to undo his fine leather boots and drop them to one side. After that he hesitated, before moving to the ties of his breeches, unknotting them with trembling fingers, and pushing them quickly down over his hips. Kicking them quickly to one side, he drew himself up and met Alberic’s gaze, waiting.

“Magnificent,” Alberic breathed, letting the desire swell roughly in his voice. There was no denying but Florian was a beautiful sight, with his long coltish limbs and unblemished skin, as white and smooth as cream in the dancing light. His prick, by contrast, already jutted straight and ruddy with blood. Alberic had seen him like this countless times by now, and the sight of him never failed to stoke the desire within him; but the addition of the Imperial regalia certainly added something. The great crown was still firmly in place upon his head; the Imperial crest still hung about his neck. The ancient finery, heavy with all its gathered centuries of ceremony and grandeur, clashed and melded with his brazen nakedness in a way that was impossibly, obscenely erotic; and Alberic had to close his eyes against the force of the lust which buffeted him. His cock ached, almost to the point of pain. He wanted to touch himself, take himself in hand — just a moment’s relief — but instead clenched his fist in the fur coverlet across the couch.

Oh, yes, he would enjoy this.

Without taking his eyes from Florian’s, he shrugged off his robe and loosened the ties of his breeches beneath, reaching inside to free his own cock. It pulsed hotly in his hand, blood-swollen and urgent, and he had to suppress a hiss as he cupped it in his hand and smiled darkly up at Florian. “Come.”

For a heartbeat Florian seemed to struggle against his own self; then, all at once, he yielded —Alberic felt it as surely as if it were a current in the air — and fell to his knees before him. Bringing tentative hands up to rest on Alberic’s thighs, he asked, “What do you want of me?”

Slowly, Alberic ran the tip of his thumb over the head of his prick, watching as Florian’s eyes followed it, as his tongue flashed out to wet his lips at the sight of it.

“I’ll have your mouth, if you please, Sire,” he said. So saying, he laid his hand upon Florian’s head, the Imperial crown solid and steady beneath his hand, and guided it down. Florian let himself be guided, hands still braced on Alberic’s thighs, lips already parting to receive him. His breath drifted warmly against the head of Alberic’s cock; then, softly, he kissed it, the touch of his lips feather-light against the hot flesh. Alberic sighed, poised for pleasure, then tightened his hand in the golden hair as Florian opened his mouth and took him inside. Slick, silken heat engulfed him, Florian’s lips firm as they moved along the length of him, and Alberic threw back his head, revelling in the feel of it.

“Yes,” he groaned aloud.

In response, Florian gave a low moan that tingled all the way up the length of his cock, and Alberic hissed and twisted his fingers in his hair, holding Florian’s head roughly as it moved between his thighs. Florian’s mouth was hot, so very hot, wet and just tight enough, his lips firm as he moved his mouth over the length of Alberic’s cock, back and forth, back and forth, while Alberic groaned again, and then again. He knew what he was about, did Florian, and Alberic groaned louder still when his tongue thrilled along the vein upon the underside.

“Good,” he murmured, chest heaving as breath became hard. “You are so good, my lord…”

But even that rush of pleasure was nothing at all to the sight that greeted him when he looked down again. There was Florin’s head, eyes closed as he lost himself in his own pleasure, lips wet and swollen as the dark, swollen flesh of Alberic’s prick slid in and out of sight between them. But above all was the sight of the crown heavy about his head while he did so, its grandeur a marked contrast to the lewd doings of its wearer; and the notion sent a fierce surge of delight through him.

“Yes,” he growled aloud, tightening his hand so hard into Florian’s hair that he gave a muted little cry about Alberic’s prick. “Oh, yes.” _This_ was the proper order of things; he had worked his way up from nothing, laboured all his life to serve the Empire and make it great. Let the great families despise him. He knew who was the true master of the realm…

Dimly, through the blaze of his pleasure, he was aware that Florin was shifting impatiently against him, one hand slipping down between his own legs; and, abruptly, he snapped back into control of himself. It wouldn’t do to lose himself, not now. Especially not now.

“No.” Sharply, he slipped from Florian’s mouth and reached down to grasp his wrist. Florian blinked up at him, dazed. He was quite a sight to behold, with his hair rumpled, a deep flush across his cheeks, his lips as red and gleaming as the garnets in the crown. The obscene likeness pleased Alberic, sending a pleasant frisson through his cock even as he felt the loss of Florian’s mouth upon it, and he smiled as he raised the Emperor’s wrist.

“Not yet, my lord.”

Florian writhed in his grasp, a little bitten-off sound of frustration escaping him. “Please, Alberic. I just — I need—”

“Sssh.” Alberic stroked the wrist still enclosed in his hand, moving his thumb lightly over the vein to feel the blood rushing just beneath. Poor lad, he thought. If he did not gain better mastery of himself, how did he ever hope to master the game of power?

“Now,” he mused aloud, “what are we to do with you?”

Gently, he urged Florian to his feet, where he stood trembling. His prick stood before Alberic’s eyes, thicker than ever. With one hand encircling his waist, Alberic drew him close, very close, until he heard Florian’s breath escape him in a little shudder. With his free hand, he reached out, letting his fingers tangle in the coarse, dark-gold curls. Then, deliberately, he met Florian’s eye, and wrapped his fist tightly about him.

Florian cried aloud. His hips arched, pushing his cock further into the circle of Alberic’s fingers, seeking more. “Oh!” he gasped. “Oh, yes! Please! Ah!”

Alberic laughed, his own prick pulsing hot at the raw need in Florian’s voice, and tightened his fist. Florian gave a choked little sob, but with admirable force of will, held himself still as Alberic began to stroke him. Slowly, so very slowly, beginning at the crown and moving down the length of the swollen shaft, down and down, until he reached the root. Then, with a deft twist of his wrist that made Florian hiss through tightly-clenched teeth, he stroked his hand back up, all the way back to the very tip, smoothing out the loose skin that had gathered on his downward stroke. 

There he paused, while Florian breathed hard and clung to his shoulders. He stood perfectly still, but Alberic could feel the tension in him, the suppressed trembling, like a bowstring in the instant before the arrow is loosed, and the knowledge of it settled warm and heady in his veins. He took a moment to savour it; then, before Florian was quite ready for him, swept his hand downwards again.

He kept up this leisurely pace for some time. He had learned very early on in their association that Florian loved to be teased, to be rendered so desperate that he became quite wanton in his pursuit of release. Perhaps it was the result of being a prince, of being spoiled and cosseted so that any hint of denial became itself quite intoxicating. Whatever the case, it suited Alberic’s taste — and his purpose — admirably. Florian’s prick was hot and heavy in his palm, a good needy heaviness, and when his fingers brushed the vein, he could feel the pulse throbbing with much the same rich intensity. He kept it up, a steady, unwavering rhythm, driving him onwards, ever onwards—

Then, just as he felt Florian’s muscles go tense, he withdrew his hand. At once, Florian gave a tormented cry, eyes flying open, hips snapping and prick thrusting against the air as it vainly sought his hand once more.

“ _Alberic—_ ” he choked, but Alberic forestalled him.

“Now,” he said, “do you still think you can do without me, Sire?”

Florian’s eyes flitted across his face wildly, as if seeking some sort of flaw, some hint of yielding or mercy in his expression. Alberic stared staunchly back, giving him none. In a moment the thing had gone from teasing to deadly earnest. Florian saw it too, and after a moment or two of agony, he loosed a great sigh, a sound of purest submission, and closed his eyes, his limbs softening like wax.

“No,” he whispered. “No, I cannot.”

Alberic smiled. The words, the capitulation, warmed him to his core. “Good,” he said, and drew him down to reward him with a kiss, sweet and soft. 

“What would you have me do, Alberic?” whispered Florian, in a kind of mingled arousal and despair. “Would you have me beg?”

Alberic chuckled, deep in his throat. “And you would do it too, I’m sure.” He stroked Florian’s hipbone idly, considering. “But no, I think not. I think I will have my fill of you first.” With those words, he leaned back against the couch once more, and cupped his cock, teasing it back to its full hardness. “Come, then. If the Emperor does not choose to lie beneath another man, I am quite amenable for him to sit astride me instead.”

It took only a short time to prepare. Florian was too consumed with need to resist him any more, too desperate to snatch at any promise of relief. In no time at all, he produced a vial of the usual sweet oil and set about preparing himself, coating Alberic’s cock liberally until it gleamed, before reaching behind to open himself, his face twisting in the most debauched kind of pleasure. At last, satisfied that all was ready, Alberic reached out his hands to him and drew him down into his lap. For the briefest moment he felt only the cleft of Florian’s arse grazing the head of his cock; then Florian moved, his body settling, and Alberic groaned as he was enveloped anew in tight, rippling heat.

“Now,” he commanded, grasping Florian’s slim thighs in an unforgiving grip. “Move.”

And Florian moved. Indeed, so far gone in his lust was he that he was moving almost before Alberic gave the word. Slowly at first, as his body accustomed itself to the intrusion within it, his hips swinging back and forth, drawing him in ever deeper. Then, as they found their rhythm, Florian gave up a groan of sheer animal lust, and began moving faster, abandoning himself to the urges of his body and riding Alberic into a storm.

For his own part, Alberic could do little more than lie there, hands braced hard about Florian’s thighs. The heat, the intensity of it, were always a marvel. Florian reared above him, eyes screwed shut, his mouth open and his face contorted in what seemed almost an agony of pleasure. His regalia still hung about him, though now it was all a trifle askew, making him seem even more debauched. The sight of him, the sound of his moans, the sensation of him clenching hot and tight about him, speared Alberic through with a particularly brutal bolt of lust. The urge roared within him, the instinct to thrust up, hard and deep, to take as much of that wanton heat as he could bear. But with supreme exertion, he held himself still, leaving Florian helpless to do anything save fuck himself upon his cock.

“Oh, Alberic,” he gasped, “Alberic, please—”

His prick stood almost rigid against his belly, the tip slick and gleaming, and Alberic sensed his intention in the heartbeat before he moved. One hand left Alberic’s shoulder, but before he could take himself in hand, Alberic seized hold of him again, seized both of his wrists in his hands, leaving him no purchase but to clasp his thighs tighter about Alberic’s hips.

“Oh no, Sire,” he murmured, through his own ragged breathing. “Have you forgotten so soon? Not until I am done with you.”

At that, Florian gave a long, trembling groan of shame and pleasure; and, seemingly of their own volition, his hips began to move even faster, straining to take him in deeper and crying out as he did so. And that was the end for Alberic. Florian’s body clasped him tightly within once more, twice, and all at once his body was wracked by waves of the most exquisite, searing pleasure. It coursed through him, filled him, bore him up, and he gave a hoarse roar, lost to the heat and the triumph of it all.

As he drifted back downwards, back into himself, he became aware that he was still clasping Florian’s wrists tight, and that Florian was still thrusting upon him in desperate pursuit of his own end.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, Alberic, I cannot bear it any longer.”

Alberic understood, waited a few more thrusts, then granted his wish. Bringing back one hand to brace Florian by the waist, he wrapped the other once more around his prick, squeezing hard close to the root. Instantly, Florian reared back, transfixed with the rapture of his climax as it overtook him. A helpless cry escaped his lips, and every muscle in his body clenched, holding Alberic inside still as he spent himself in a warm rush between Alberic’s enclosing fingers.

For a long time afterwards they simply lay there side by side upon the couch, sprawled where they had fallen, like the dead on a battlefield. By slow degrees, the sweat cooled and the seed dried upon their skin. They were quite filthy, Alberic thought, stretching his tired muscles with quiet satisfaction. Filthy and debauched. It was a feeling he rather enjoyed.

He turned his head to where Florian lay at his side. The emperor was curled away from him, so that Alberic could only see his back and the back of his head, the crown still askew upon it. He was awake, though, he could tell that from the very stillness of his body, awake and probably brooding. No doubt tonight’s events had given him much to reflect upon.

With a low laugh, Alberic reached for him and brushed a kiss against the nape of his neck. “Well, Sire?”

Slowly, Florian turned to him. His eyes were very bright — brighter than the low-burning lamps seemed to warrant, and for a moment his lips parted as if he meant to speak. But instead he simply gave up a sigh, and curled into Alberic’s side, warm and complaisant. Alberic smiled, then wrapped an arm about him, holding him close, secure and secured.

“You were right,” Florian murmured at last. “We are bound together in this, you and I.”

He had learnt his lesson. Alberic was pleased enough to reward him with a lingering kiss, letting his body curve more closely about Florian’s. “I once promised your father that I would serve and protect you when you became Emperor. You may depend on me, Sire, always.”

In reply, Florian gave a soft, cheerless laugh. “You have left me with no choice.”


End file.
